


Drunk

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2014 [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade is drunk, and comes home to bed.  Lucky for him, it isn’t empty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kestrel337](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/gifts).



> The twenty-second installment of this year’s Advent Calendar Drabbles. Today’s fic is titled with the prompt, which is from kestrel337. The full prompt was “drunk caroling”, but I sort of forgot that second part.
> 
> The exact pairing as well as a brief warning would be spoilers for the ending. It’s nothing really scary, and I don’t think it’s one of the more common triggers (I promise it’s not non/dub-con or incest or watersports and no one dies in the course of the story), but if you don’t mind be spoiled and desperately want to know please see the End Notes.

It took three tries before Greg was able to successfully turn on the bedroom light – he could have _sworn_ it was at least a foot further away from the door, but then the entire world seemed to have twisted its measurements around.  He also could have sworn he’d only had two glasses of brandy, when John had taken his keys away because he’d had _five_.

 

“I have not,” protested Greg, and Sherlock had come over, given him a desultory sniff, and said, in that tone that brokered no argument only because Sherlock wouldn’t have heard it anyway, “Six.”

 

John had bustled him into a cab and sent him home, and there began the rather tipsy journey up the steps and into the house, fumbling with the door, falling into the foyer, fumbling with the door _again_ to close it, and finally up the stairs.

 

It was a very long journey up the stairs.

 

It was a very, very, _very_ long journey up the stairs.

 

God.  Maybe he could just sleep on the stairs.

 

No, that wouldn’t be good.  Terrible for his back.  Greg kept climbing, and found his way into the bedroom, where he whacked at the wall with his hand for a few minutes before finding the switch, flooding the room with light.

 

Molly sat straight up in bed, pale in the yellow light of the lamp.

 

“Greg?”

 

“Oh, sorry,” said Greg, sheepish, and he turned off the light again.  Right.  The bed was somewhere ahead of him.  Not far.  Step step step step step _thud_.

 

“Are you drunk?”

 

“Nooooooo,” said Greg, and fell onto the bed next to Molly.  It was a lovely bed.  It was a soft bed.  It was a bed with Molly in it.  He sighed happily.  “I only had two brandies.  I don’t care what John counted.”

 

“Ah,” said Molly, and then paused.  “How many brandies did John say you’d had?”

 

“Five,” said Greg, because Sherlock was wrong, too.  He was just _more_ wrong.  One couldn’t smell brandies from _hair_ , that was just silly.

 

“Mmm,” said Molly, running her fingers through that same hair.  They were cool and light, and Greg sighed happily.  “Did you have a nice time?”

 

“We sang carols,” offered Greg. 

 

“And drank brandy.”

 

“You’re pretty,” said Greg, and rolled closer to her.  Her hair was down around her shoulders, and if her fingers were cold, the rest of her was delightfully warm.  “Mmm.  You’re warm, too.”

 

“I had a lovely big supper.”

 

“Oh, good,” said Greg, and kissed her.  Molly’s mouth was warm and wet and delicious; her teeth tasted like peppermint and salt.  He suckled on her tongue, which made her gasp, and nipped at her lower lip, which made her squirm and sigh.  She wriggled next to him, and scraped her teeth along the stubble on his chin.

 

“I like when you haven’t shaved recently,” she said, in such a shy whisper that the words went straight to his cock. 

 

“I want to feel how warm you are,” breathed Greg, and ran his fingers under the thin nightshirt to her waist.

 

“You’re drunk,” laughed Molly lightly.  “That’d be taking advantage.”

 

“I don’t mind.”

 

“You _should_ ,” scolded Molly.  “All that alcohol in your bloodstream – you can’t think properly.”

 

The bed shifted and dipped on the other side of Molly as the third occupant rolled over, and then rested his hand on the back of Greg’s head.  “Then again,” said Mycroft Holmes, his hand carding through Greg’s hair.  “It’s been a rather long time since I’ve had the opportunity to imbibe.”

 

Greg closed his eyes.  Mycroft’s fingers – much warmer than Molly’s – felt utterly luxurious and soothing. 

 

Mycroft continued.  “John is a terrible mathematician.  _Six_ brandies, at a minimum.”

 

“That’s what Sherlock said.”

 

“Oh, Greg,” sighed Molly, and she looked over her shoulder at Mycroft.  “We shouldn’t.  We _really_ shouldn’t.”

 

“No,” agreed Mycroft. 

 

Greg whined, deep in his throat.  Molly was so warm…and Mycroft’s voice like sugar candy…and he could already feel them moving around him, pulling him into the center of the large bed, spooning him on either side, warm bodies and cool fingers and Molly’s mouth at his throat, nipping at the skin lightly.  Mycroft’s fingers in his hair, one hand pulling gently on his cock.

 

“Just a little,” allowed Mycroft, and Greg opened his eyes in time to see Molly’s face brighten in the moonlight as her fangs descended.  “After all, we _have_ already eaten tonight.”

 

He turned back to Mycroft, just in time to see the elder vampire’s fangs glisten.  Mycroft’s smile was gentle and even a bit excited.

 

“It’s been such a long time since I’ve had the flavor of brandy,” said Mycroft longingly, and began to drink.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lestrade/Molly/Mycroft. And Molly and Mycroft are vampires. No, I didn’t really see that coming either.


End file.
